


remembering you is a ritual

by HiddenEye



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Accidental Voyeurism, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Bottom Shiro (Voltron), Clothed Sex, Come as Lube, Counter Sex, Hair-pulling, Hand Jobs, M/M, Overstimulation, Post-War, Top Keith (Voltron)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-11
Updated: 2018-12-11
Packaged: 2019-09-16 12:42:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,384
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16954242
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HiddenEye/pseuds/HiddenEye
Summary: “You’ve locked him in a room for three days. Gave him the same treatment of a convict.”“We were trying to avoid any misunderstandings that could occur,” the Captain says. “We don’t want a mass panic in the Garrison when we’ve only just started to settle down after the war. Keeping this quiet was the only hope until we figure something out.”“Did he do anything that could be considered as a crime?” Keith asks. “From what I’ve heard, the only thing that happened was that he crashed at the far ends of the desert, didn’t have a chance to do anything else before he was escorted here with guns aimed into his eye sockets.”





	remembering you is a ritual

**Author's Note:**

> I was inspired by this art I saw on twitter (it’s 4.15am here, I’ll tag it later).
> 
> Note that this is the point of view of Shiro’s clone, so everything might be a little different than what Original Shiro would think. I hope you’ll enjoy it tho!

“Captain?”

It’s a breath of utter shock, a shudder of disbelief that has him squinting at the bright light shining through the film of his eyelids. He feels heavy, feels light, feels as if he’s suspended in the vastness of black drenched canvas before he falls. There’s glass, there’s the sharp _woosh_ of gravity before it erodes with dark strands of space clinging onto his flesh. With sands of time sighing into his ears.

He doesn’t know how much of it has passed. Time, he means. But, it must have been so long that he’s able to feel people’s fear leak through their hard barrier of professionalism.

He heaves in a breath, head bowed near his chest, and droplets slide down the length of his hair to fall heavily onto his thighs and the flooded crypod he sits in.

The cryopod; the only thing separating him from the touch of Earth, a broken device that once keeps him locked up. It’s pried open, pieces of glass thrown on the ground around it, some of the smaller ones scattered with the same structure of far too acquainted stars; the same stars he sees in his head despite knowing he hasn’t witnessed them before with his own eyes, the same stars his memories yearns to touch so much, as if to prove something to someone without having a single clue of what or who that might be.

They’re all ghosts refusing to leave this husk he’s been made into. He sees them now, a burst of of harsh reds and deep, deep purple colliding and melding with an intensity of a raged bull. He sees them now, he thinks again wanely, lips parted. He sees them now.

When he moves, it’s slow, it’s resistant — the half-drenched purple tunic he wears cakes with a liquid he can still taste at the back of his tongue. It’s bitter as it is tasteless, a heavy weight that drags down his throat and pulls onto his lungs as he breathes, and breathes, and breathes through the hard clench of teeth. When he licks his lips, he expects it to be cracked and bleeding from the crash.

He lets his tongue slide against the plush flesh instead, and contemplation slides down the base of his skull when he pulls his hand out of the liquid.

He reaches out, fingers flexing and stretching with a deep ache of long sleep, of pre-existence that still hazed his mind. It snaps a reaction from the woman in front of him, the nozzle of her blaster aimed steadily into his face that he’s forced to stop, hand suspended mid-air.

“Lieutenant,” one of them says, almost tentative when positions of power comes into play. The squadron she brings with mimics her position like ducklings crossing the muddy road, trained well into the systematics of handling the unknown. He takes in their attire, the whites and greys and oranges, with helmets and weapons and embedded survival instincts one could only find in a prey.

“Lieutenant,” they say again. “The Captain, he,” they hesitate for a second, eyes snapping to him that he stares back. “He’s on the line.”

The woman in front of him lifts one hand and taps onto the side of her helmet. “Captain.”

It’s faint when their leader speaks, but it’s enough for him to hear from where she’s standing so close to him. _“You wouldn’t be this quiet if you hadn’t found anything, Leiutanent.”_

He lets his spine unfurl from his slouch, something alight underneath his sternum while he reaches for the edge of his broken pod for purchase until the broken shards pierce through his skin. His blood oozes out from his cuts, and he doesn’t exactly register the pain, nor does he care for it.

They don’t like that. The blasters click in warning when he moves, when he lets his legs straighten forward from their bent position. He eyes the blaster somewhere near his neck, and stops.

The woman doesn’t move, but her eyes sharpen as she replies, “Apologies, Captain. We’ll be back soon with the wreckage, there’s something you need to see.”

 _Wreckage_. He presses his tongue against the back row of his bottom teeth, pulls his hands away from the broken glass that he cradles them in his lap, half immersed in his own water womb that trails of red seep from the cut. The team doesn’t move, and the voice inside her helmet speaks, sounding grave.

“ _Code?”_

“Between Charlie and Delta. Maybe both.”

There’s silence, and he wants to hear the man in the helmet talk again. He wants to know the voice, how he _knows_ the voice, has heard of it in the memory he doesn’t own. He’s felt his lips move with it before. Has heard him spoke in the quiet tomb of his own bedroom back at the Garrison. But, it shouldn’t be. That woman’s leader shouldn’t own _his_ voice. That’s him, that’s supposed to be _him._

 _“Alright,”_ the voice says, and he feels like he’s short of breath when the low tone drags down his nape, making him curl his fingers into the meat of his palms. The blue eyes of the woman pins him down. _“Bring it in.”_

“Sir,” the woman acknowledges, and she doesn’t waste time when she gestures with her fingers, allowing the gloved hands of her people to grab onto each side of his bicep and haul him out. He tenses, dripping wet and lets the two bodies of men press against his sides to steady him. He finds his legs are useless when he tries to stand on his own, unstable on his ankle and knees. He’s wet and the undersuit feels too thin and exposing.

For the first time since he woke up, he feels terribly vulnerable.

He peers at the woman from the long curtain of his hair, leaning heavily against one of the men as the other soldier tugs his hands forward and bounds his wrists together with clamps. He stares at them, hears the way metal _clink_ against metal, feels the weight dangling onto his bones. When they let him go, he curls his arms towards his stomach.

“Move out,” she orders, and the two men between him moves with her, forcing him to follow as well. He takes one wobbly step, and another, before his foot jerks to the side and he almost falls down if it isn’t for one of the soldiers catching his elbow, pulling him nearer towards the man’s side that he’s forced to lean against him again.

The woman, the lieutenant, glances back at him, face tight.

He grits his teeth, contempt and embarrassment churning deeply underneath his clavicle. But, he doesn’t say a word, doesn’t protest when the other soldier stands near his left as they climb up the crater his pod made. His legs shake, and there’s little help when his hands are locked together, but he manages. When he reaches to the top, he’s breathing heavily through his nose before he’s being nudged to move again.

There’s a minute where a wave of distant familiarity crashes onto his lungs when he takes in the planet around him. The ground stretches far to the end of the world until they’re dipped to edge, stacked together with the blues of the skies and the whites of the clouds. When he tilts up his head, the sun shines bright, hot, but the wind is a companion that greets him with a brush against his cheek.

There are birds flying above him, a flock of them that makes him stare. He knows these skies.

The opened car door makes his focus snap down to the firm floor of red and brown again, and he doesn’t need any prompting this time when he slides into the middle of the back seat with both soldiers on each side of him.

He looks out into the desert as the woman and the third man sits at the front, engine jumping to a start as the doors slam closed behind them.

He knows these lands.

 

* * *

 

It isn’t until he’s been forced to stay in one room that he decides he despise the place. It doesn’t help what planted memories of it replays in his mind in an endless loop of annoyance, where barely restrained anger and heartbreak bubbles through the lid of his conscious, threatening to overflow. He leans against the chair, sighing tiredly as he swipes his face with his palms, handcuffs prickling into his skin.

They’ve cleaned him up, scrubbed the grime from his shoulders before changing him into a fresh pair of clothes that smells of dreadful hospitals, with its oranges and the whites being a bright glare against the bare room he’s been pushed into. He lets his fingers run against the soft clothing while two men in full body quarantine suits handle the the tangles in his hair, going through it thoroughly with a plastic comb.

There’s a _snip_ , and his grabs the wrist of the person holding onto a pair of scissors, catching both of them off guard.

“No,” he says firmly, causing the man to tense. His voice is guttural from misuse, and it scratches painfully at the back of his tongue that he swallows his saliva thickly, hoping for it to be a temporary relief. He notices how the other man has his hand hovering above his blaster, bristling, ready to shoot on the slightest inconvenience.

He pulls back his own hand, burying it into the grip of his clothes as he looks at them, softening his expression into something more neutral. “I don’t need it,” he informs them, slipping into the shirt until it rests on his shoulders naturally. There’s hardly any creases when he slides his hands down his front, the smooth material letting them sail over it easily.

They exchange a look from the corner of his eye, and the one holding the scissors puts it back into one of the compartments of his belt, while the other slowly drops his hand. He knows how they’re hardly relaxed, though. If anything, they’re more wary of him now.

He doesn’t care, because the longer he’s breathing and existing on this plane of dimension, the easier it is to pick out what is what and to plan for an emergency escape if things doesn’t go the way he wants it to be.

They may look like him, talk like him, understand him. He may know now what species they are and why they treat him as if he has a second head. It doesn’t mean he has to bow to their demands if he doesn’t see it fit. He’s a free man, he has a right to entitlement.

It’s after he’s clean that they give him a packet of plain water. He takes a good look at it, but doesn’t have the chance to make an inquiry before he’s being pushed into this room he now sits in.

The water’s vacuumed, making it easier for him to consume without having any suspicions. He’s thirsty the moment it hits his mouth, and he inhales it without giving himself a chance to breathe. When it’s empty, he feels better than he was the first time he’s walk through the doors, at least a little clearer around the the mind. He lets his thumb trail over the descriptions at the back of the packet, before he sets it by the edge of the table.

He waits for the people who caught him to show face, the stretch of two-way mirror a mocking thing on his left. He waits, and waits, drags his fingers through his long hair and admires at how glossy it feels. He’s seen a glimpse of his appearance from the glass, seen how he looks as good as he feels before he’s sitting down on one of the only two chairs available in the room.

There’s a flitting consideration of tying his hair, but the door slides open to let someone in.

He finds himself having to look at the same face he’s seen on the mirror minutes ago, and it makes something zip down in anticipation. It’s the Captain, the same man that woman has been talking to earlier. The same man who wears his voice.

This face looks older, pressed around the edges. The Captain has starlight white hair unlike his dark brown, a scar across the bridge of his nose where he, himself, doesn’t. The Captain is broader and bigger in where he is slighter muscles. The Captain holds himself as if he‘s a demigod in prophecies sung by men and creatures alike, greater than most, graceful in comparison to the woman’s firm press of feet against the earth.

The Captain takes a look at him, and sits down on the opposite chair he occupies.

He stares at the man in white and black, sees the glint of badges he owns. “Are you me, or am I you?”

“Neither,” the Captain says, and he’s scrutinising him too, dragging those steel gaze across his face as if he’s looking for something. “You look painfully young.”

An odd statement, and he doesn’t know how to react to that when the Captain speaks again. “What are you called?”

“Takashi Shirogane,” he answers, almost expectant. The Captain hardly reacts to this, as if he knows that’s the answer he would get. “You seem unbothered by the fact that I look and sound like you,” he pauses, thinking, letting his bounded hands rest on the table. “That I _am_ you.”

“I was waiting for something like this to happen,” Captain Shirogane admits. “Are you aware of who you are, Takashi?”

Takashi gives him a peculiar look of amusement. “Isn’t it weird you’re addressing yourself to another body?”

“Are you aware of who you are?”

Takashi shrugs off the calm tone easily, knowing how by this time, this version of himself has a firm grip around his temper. Unlike him, unlike the fact that he is in fact, a younger version of Takashi Shirogane, whose sense of direction is harsher in a way that he makes sure he gets what he wants. “I am you, or a part of you that made me, well, me.” His forefinger taps against the table. “And I know that I’m a one-day-old baby.”

Captain Shirogane tilts his head slightly. “So, you know what you are then?”

“A person,” Takashi says, and he’s tangling his fingers together before he leans back again, hands on his stomach. “A man. A clone.” He cants up an eyebrow. “Is that what you wanted to hear?”

“In a way,” Captain Shirogane replies, and there’s nothing sort of a guarded mask one would expect at this type interrogation. He’s absolutely in control of himself, a total embodiment of a leader people have been praising him for years. It ticks off Takashi more ways than one, because the doctors used to be like this when he’s in for a check-up. “What memories you have already belong to someone else—“

“From you.” Takashi adds.

“—and I know it’ll come back either in a wave or it’ll come through slowly.” The Captain bears down his gaze, and Takashi stares back unflinchingly. “You’ll either be in excruciating pain, or you would have a headache that’s bearable enough for you to handle for the rest of the day.”

“That long?” He asks, and Captain Shirogane gives a nod.

“Yes. I would suggest you rest, it’ll go away the next morning.” He pauses, and there’s a battle between himself before he speaks again. “Any questions?”

Takashi tries to look deeper into those eyes, past the barrier the Captain has made between them. But, there’s nothing Takashi could find and it irks him to think he’s grown to be this expressionless, showing nothing to console, to have something personal to offer emotionally.

But, he’s an imposter as he is an intruder, so Takashi supposed Captain Shirogane has a right to be withdrawn when he’s staring back at the face he’s currently wearing. Although, Takashi knows he’s not as disinterested as he might appear, or he, the highest authority in this organisation, wouldn’t come all the way just to see something crash landing on their backyard when he has people to do that for him.

He does have a question, though. It’s been on his mind since he woke up, since the first thread of thought reattaches itself to his conscious. It’s a slap of images that flash around the dome of his head until he’s able to make out faces and voices and touches. The state of being overwhelmed clutches around his throat that he almost heaves out his empty stomach, tries to block out the way his senses has skyrocketed without his control.

At first, it’s only a face. Dark, dark hair with eyes that put the galaxies to shame. A smile curling knowingly at the corner of his lips. Hands that clutch around the bars of the hovercraft as they urge through the howling wind.

It’s hearing his voice then, calling out his name as it rings in his ears. _Shiro, Shiro, Shiro,_ over and over until Takashi knows how it’s being addressed to him, how this person is reaching out for him as much as Takashi reaches out for him then. It’s having to realise how Takashi knows this person, and this person knows him.

It isn’t until he’s given time to think that he has a name to this face running down the hallways of his mind.

“Where is he?”

For once, confusion flickers through. “Who?”

“There’s only one person both you and I ever bothered to remember and you know it,” Takashi says, contemptuous, smiling with his teeth. “I’d like to see him, if you don’t mind. Since it’s clear you don’t want to have anything to do with me.”

He can see the way Captain Shirogane tenses, a rode-like demeanor taking over his expression that has Takashi looking over in interest. “I have no idea who you’re asking for.”

“Him, Captain,” Takashi repeats, tone light. He lets his fingers drum against his stomach, sees the way the Captain holds his eyes with his jaw locked. “Keith. I want Keith.”

The effect is spontaneous. Another barrier slams down and has Takashi watching the inner denial of a fool who thinks he can convince people with his role, with his words of reaching for the moon. It’s laughable to think that both of them would ever forget the one who saved them from themselves for far too many times. It could even be considered as a crime. That kind of insult isn’t amendable. Takashi isn’t going to make it amendable.

The Captain grips onto his own fingers together, uncharacteristically twitchy from the way he presses onto the nail of his thumb until it turns white. This is stabbing him deep, wringing out everything he’s hiding in his box of secrets and smearing every single one of them against the cold walls of this room. His ribcage is being pried open with the pull of Takashi’s fingers, and the Captain doesn’t like it.

With how the gold band fits perfectly around his ring finger, Takashi knows Captain Shirogane has done himself a blasphemy that is destroying him from the inside out.

It only took a name. _The_ name. If only Keith knew he could kill them both with a demand alone if he wanted to.

“He isn’t here,” the Captain replies curtly. A cat would have had his ears pulled back, tail lashing.

Takashi doesn’t show his disappointment, answering only with a hum. “Where is he?”

“Nowhere that you should know,” the Captain almost growls, and Takashi wants to roll his eyes at how this man thinks he can keep Keith away from him. “What would you want from him?”

“I don’t think that’s any of your business,” Takashi tells him callously, and immediately, Captain Shirogane snarls.

“I’ll make it my business when it comes to Keith.”

Takashi grins in response. “Come on, you never actually respected him enough to have that kind of privilege.” The Captain stares at him, lips thinned, eyes ablaze. Takashi merely reaches forward and taps the table, just near enough that his finger almost brushes the ring. “I’ll wait for Keith if I have to. Unlike you, I have a chance to not screw things up.”

Riling him up might not be the greatest decision Takashi would make but there’s fire in his chest too, and it’s climbing up his veins, seeping into his system at how everything has gone to _waste_. He’s not going to let something as important as this slip away again.

Besides, it’s clear that Captain Shirogane already made his choice. Permanently.

Takashi leans back, and Captain Shirogane lets his chair drag back when he stands, eyes boring down on him. “You’ll be given a room until we can figure this out, I suggest you don’t wander around.” He straightens his spine, gaze narrowing. “It’s bad enough they think you’re a bug in this place, and I’m trying to make sure we don’t raise anymore alarms than necessary.”

Fair. Takashi doesn’t want to ruffle their feathers more than they already are. He’s only here for one person only.

He nods, and Captain Shirogane glances towards the two way mirror. “Leiutanent McClain would take you to your room. You would eat there, bathe there, and come out when we tell you to.”

“I’m a prisoner again.” Takashi states.

“I’m protecting you.” The Captain replies smoothly. It’s just a paraphrase of _I’m protecting my people from you_ underneath those words. But, again, _fair._ “We’ll continue this later.”

He turns to leave, door sliding open with a small _beep_ that Takashi sees the same woman from before —McClain— who gives the Captain a nod.

“Captain?” Takashi calls out, and Captain Shirogane turns around. “Congratulations.”

From where his hands are still curled on top of the table, Takashi gives his own ring finger a single tap.

If he’s thrown to the dusty grounds of the desert with firearms shoved into his brain, he wouldn’t blame him. _Fair_ , he would say, before his brain gets blasted out.

Instead, Captain Shirogane turns away and leaves.

 

* * *

 

Takashi finds himself heaving out what food he eats into the trash can more times than he would like. The Captain is true in his word when he says memories of himself would crash through without a single ounce of shame. His skull feels like someone’s using the wrecking ball on him, making the back of his eyes and temples on the verge of exploding.

He stays in bed most of the time, forcing himself to eat when he has to and takes a shower when he isn’t passed out. At least he’s given something to mellow down some of the pain, swallowing two pills every night before he passes out like the dead.

The dreams are him sitting right at the middle of the cinema as these memories are played on a big screen. It’s clear, it’s accurate, and he hates every single one of them. But, he can’t move, he can’t speak, and he’s alone with tall red curtains and a spacious dark room. He can’t avoid those memories if he wanted to, it doesn’t even matter whether or not they’re in chronical order. Some way or another, every step he takes away from them, it comes back with full force until he’s knocked off his feet and falling down an endless well.

Always, _always_ , he wakes up with sweat on his brow and breath heaving through his mouth. He doesn’t sleep once he’s been rudely awaken, occupying himself with some channels or letting his fingers and mind twitch around with a rubik's cube he finds inside a drawer. He’s been given fresh clothes for the day and night, and changes into them once he washes off the nightmare with a spray of cold shower.

 _I love you_.

Cursing at Haggar is as fruitless to curse at the Captain. She’s dead, she’s gone, her waves of power have subsided against the shore of the universe and everyone wouldn’t feel her threat again. The Captain, however, is a bull-headed idiot who plants a cemented wall between himself and the world around him. If it takes something awful to tumble down these delusions, with Keith as its price, Takashi was going to gut him.

Perhaps they were right. Perhaps love was a drug, and you’ve been on one type for long that if you switched it to something else, you wouldn’t even know the difference.

Takashi doesn’t know where Keith is, or if he’s even on Earth in the first place. He dreams of him, calls for him from the room he’s locked himself in, and Takashi feels the barely-there touch of his fingers against the heat of skin and the warmth of his eyes.

They haven’t even met in person and Takashi misses him, he misses Keith.

With a toss of a rubik’s cube, he watches the way it flies up, each solid colour swimming glaringly in the air before landing into his palms again.

It’s three days being hauled up in the room, three days since his last conversation with anyone else; it’s three days of that and then, there’s a knock on the door — two swift and firm rap of knuckles against the surface.

Takashi stares at it for a second before he puts away the cube, getting up to walk towards the door.

It’s Leiutanent McClain. She’s in their green uniform, flanked by two guards as she meets his expression with a tilt of her head. “You’ve been called to attend for a meeting with the board and Voltron later in the evening.” She leans to the side to let one of the guards pass a fresh pair of clothes into Takashi’s hands. “You’ll wear this. We’ll call you back after you’ve had your meal.”

It’s the orange uniform of a cadet. He can’t help but feel as if this situation seemed a little bit humorous for his taste when comparing it to his memories. That person had been younger and enthusiastic then. Determined, wanting to shove his success into the face of the disbelievers. Now, the whole thing’s been fast-forwarded more than ten years into the future where the world is almost dead and he doesn’t have to bother checking onto his wristlet.

“How do they expect me to behave?” He asks, looking up. She and Lance share the same eye colour, chipped from the sharpest iceberg. “Confused? Sad? Monotonous?”

“Cooperative,” she answers coolly. “There would be questions, they expect honest answers.”

“Even if it’s going to hurt your Captain later?”

McClain doesn’t say a word and merely steps back, letting the door slide close until it clicks softly into place. He stares at it, noticing the smooth grey it has while the receding footsteps fade, before he leans against the doorframe to bring up the uniform directly in front of his face. He clicks his tongue against his teeth.

“This isn’t going to end well,” he mutters, eyes snapping from its pressed collar to buttoned cuffs. If there’s anything he’s learned from Original Takashi Shirogane, he’s a bitch when it comes to the protection of Keith. Something he inherited, no doubt, given how the intense need is still burning inside him. But, the thought of maintaining professionalism towards the Garrison is going to be a pain, especially when they’re all going to be there.

Hours pass and he’s walking down the hallways again with escorts front and back. He’s aware how they have weapons but keep them tucked in properly, sees the stance of their bodies but not their faces underneath those helmets. He walks, sees how empty the place is, and purses his lips together. At the very least, he’s not handcuffed as he was on the first day here.

They’ve arrived, and the first thing he sees after the doors slide open is a long table filled with _them_. He lets his eyes slide over them as a hush immediately settles heavily above their heads, taking in the expressions of the MFE pilots from where they stand behind the people of Garrison — from Sam Holt to Iverson and others and how this affects them more than it should when they’ve dealt with an army of aliens. His gaze glides towards Voltron and sees grim stares, almost a striking contrast to those who sit in front of them.

When Takashi sees Keith, it’s breathless. When Takashi sees Keith, it’s elbow on the table, dark eyes on him, stoically calm.

What images he’s been seeing has done no justice to Keith. He beautiful now more than he is then, overcoming all kind of praises one would compare to the moon and stars and the old novels of love and scent of roses anyone would’ve read out of. Keith is real in the flesh, hair in a low ponytail with the scar on his cheek acting as a blaring reminder of how it’s come to that, and Takashi manages to see them all with his own eyes.

There’s an apology in his gaze when Takashi finds himself being nudged to the end of the room, where everyone would see him as much as he would see them. But, he doesn’t care for them, not when Keith’s here, not when Keith sits on the chair with his fingers clenched and jaw locked.

Captain Shirogane, who’s seated opposite of him, stares at Keith in pain.

“When you said you were cloned, Captain,” Iverson begins, voice slightly strained. “I was half-hoping you were joking.”

It doesn’t pull the kind of reaction all of them would’ve wanted, a fog of tense air swallowing the attempted ease without mercy.

Lance can’t keep still, rearranging his legs before Hunk stops him with a hand on one of his thighs, who snaps his eyes towards him in response, gaze steady. When Hunk doesn’t reply, look merely holding onto his, Lance straightens his back and does as he’s told. They’re wary, clearly having been lied to by one of _him_ still sits prettily on their minds.

But, Takashi only has his eyes on Keith.

“I wish,” the Captain replies. A film shuts down when he turns to look at Takashi, a monotonous expression snapping into the place of his regret. “A lot of things happened up there. I can’t even list them all down even if we have the day.”

“We still need a report on this,” Iverson says, and his forehead puckers in thought. Then, his eyes flicker towards the Captain, something akin to apology peering through. “And on whatever happened when you disappeared.”

“Of course,” Captain Shirogane says. Takashi notices how this makes the corner of his mouth twitch.

It’s always okay, it’s always going to go as the way one would expect from a higher authority when it comes to the horror he goes through. For learning purposes, they might say; the sanity of a man being left to balance on a tip of a knife as he trudges past Hell’s diesel of sins. Others would be safe, and that’s how it would go. If he survives, it’s a bonus.

No one in their right mind would want to go through that road again. But, it’s for the greater good. It’s one life to millions. It’s an honourable duty.

“So.” The single word has Takashi straightening his back, a hiss of breath threatening to tattle on how that voice alone is enough to make him lose composure. There is none of the same snark he’s used in the interrogation room, shaking him empty when he’s faced with the electrical grip of Keith’s gaze. “You’ve locked him in a room for three days. Gave him the same treatment of a convict.”

“We were trying to avoid any misunderstandings that could occur,” the Captain says. “We don’t want a mass panic in the Garrison when we’ve only just started to settle down after the war. Keeping this quiet was the only hope until we figure something out.”

“Did he do anything that could be considered as a crime?” Keith asks. “From what I’ve heard, the only thing that happened was that he crashed at the far ends of the desert, didn’t have a chance to do anything else before he was escorted here with guns aimed into his eye sockets.”

“The possibility of a spy being sent to Earth is still a speculation,” Captain Shirogane clarifies smoothly, and it sends a ripple of reaction through Team Voltron. Of course, he would bring this up. It’s still a sore spot for those who got hit with his betrayal. “He could attack at anytime without any of us knowing, and the only way to prevent that is if we establish heavy measures to confine an escalation towards this.”

“It’s an escalation if we don’t treat it properly,” Keith points out. “It could trigger something we don’t know. Since he has your very essence, Captain, locking him up might not be the greatest idea.”

If a fight conjured now, it’s going to be personal; it’s going to be ugly; it’s going to hurt so much more and it’s going to involve Takashi in every aspect that he doesn’t want to have anything to do with it. From the faces of their colleagues, it’s obvious they’re stuck in a middle of a spat that hasn’t been resolved for a while, and they’re beginning to get tired of it.

He watches instead, and he waits.

 

* * *

 

“I’m sorry.”

When Takashi lifts his head from his place on the stool, it’s to see Keith by the door.

The argument that takes place for him to have this kind of freedom lasted them five hours. It’s been under Keith’s determination that Takashi gets to leave his room and have his life spent like any other human being inside this building. He’s able to go to the nearby lounge, stretch his legs in the hallways, or even have a breath of fresh air whenever he needs. _He has his own right like the rest of us_ , Keith’s words grounds out, fire licking in his glare. _He’s a human being like the rest of us. Like you._

Captain Shirogane gives in with the condition that someone has to have an eye on him at all times. Takashi will have guards outside his door when it’s after curfew, and any fault he commit will revoke those rights away.

The conversation itself is tiring. Takashi watches the same mental exhaustion hang onto everyone else as they take their leave, one by one trailing out until the room is empty, causing the weight of its significance to bear down on him. And then, he finds himself being escorted out with the same guards from before.

The moment he steps out, he sees Captain Shirogane at the end of the hallway talking to another member of the Garrison in green. When Takashi takes a careful look, he finds himself looking at the man who has put the golden ring around the Captain’s finger.

Before Takashi could react, there’s a whirlpool of dark and red before he’s looking at the back of Keith’s head as he briskly goes down the same hallway. There’s a phone pressed to his ear, and he’s speaking into it in the same beat of his footsteps — it’s clipped, it’s firm, and Keith doesn’t even spare the couple a glance when he turns to the opposite way of the junction.

Takashi sees how the Captain has his eyes linger on the direction Keith has gone, and snaps back to his fiancé when a question was asked at his way.

If the Captain has been tolerable before, he loses all of Takashi’s respect starting from then on.

Now, it’s somewhere past four in the evening in the empty lounge, a day passed since the meeting, and he has a cup of decaf in his hands while the lowered volume of the television becomes a buzz at the back of his head. The sun stretches low into the room and emits a soft glow around the furniture, allowing the sense of protection to waft around the air as he takes everything in.

“Why are you sorry for?” He asks. Takashi finds himself openly trace the scar on his cheek with his eyes, before he lets them drop into his beverage as he thumbs against the handle of the mug. “I should be the one apologising for getting you into trouble.”

“You didn’t do anything wrong,” Keith says, and Takashi snaps his head up when the stool beside him is being dragged out, noticing how Keith pushes himself on it and bodily faces his way. He leans back and crosses his arms, the red and white suit stretching across his chest as he regards Takashi with a flitting look. Takashi holds his breath under his study. “In fact, you’re innocent. They shouldn’t treat you like that.”

“I’m one of the many clones of the strongest man in history,” Takashi reminds him. “After everything that happened before this, they have the right to be uncomfortable. Especially Shiro.”

Something heavy dangles below his eyes, an eternal weariness Keith doesn’t know how to get rid of. “I know. But, you’re still you’re own person. I believe that with you, like the time I believed it with him when we were fighting on that base.” He sighs softly. “That’s why I was so angry at how you were being treated.”

It makes his heart stutter at how easy Keith says this to him, how this admittance holds so much meaning to him. Takashi looks back into his mug, thankful that he doesn’t get the chance to tie his long hair earlier as it covers half of his face.

“He’s afraid he’d do it again,” he begins. “How he’d just wake up someday and become an entirely different person than he was the day before. He doesn’t want to hurt you another time, and he’s guilty about everything you’ve done for him all those years ago.”

He can feel the drill of Keith’s look on the side of his head. “How much of his memories do you have?”

Takashi shrugs lightly. “I have a huge chunk of it missing between the first time he crash landed here with his death. I remember your fight with him on the base, Haggar losing, the celebration that comes after it and,” he hesitates. “An engagement.”

Keith says nothing, and Takashi continues on. “That’s it. There’s nothing beyond. When I search for it, I’m just left hanging to spend the rest of it on my own. It’s like the trial of this game ended and I’m going to do everything else without someone else’s hand on the wheel.”

“How does it work? These memories?”

“It’s like I’m there, I can feel the ground and I can taste my own blood in my mouth, but I’m watching from an outsider’s point of view. It’s,” he pauses, wetting his bottom lip, looking up from his slouch position against the surface of the breakfast island. “I gotta admit, it’s overwhelming sometimes. But, I can handle it.”

Keith lets his face soften. “I’m sorry.”

“You don’t have to do that,” Takashi tells him, and without another thought, he pushes himself up until he’s mimicking Keith’s posture. Only, Takashi lets his hands rest on top of his thighs, stool twisting away from the island and towards Keith. “You don’t have to say sorry.”

Keith rubs his arms subconsciously, eyes on the mug instead. “I know.”

Takashi’s able to see every hair and crease Keith has from where the sun shines directly on him. It’s memorising, seeing how shadows dip above his top lip and across the edge if his jaw. It’s seeing the way strands of his hair stick to his neck, his lashes curling against the apple of his cheeks.

He’s beautiful, in mind and in soul. He always has been for the longest time.

“Do you still love him?” Takashi asks, and Keith snaps his wide-eyed look towards him.

It takes a while for Keith to answer, letting his words roll over with his lips pressed thin. Takashi waits.

It seems like time goes on and on until Keith speaks. It’s painful, and the rasp of his voice comes out when he says, “He has someone else. He’s engaged.”

“Do you love him?” Takashi repeats.

Keith sucks in a breath, digging his nails into his arms. “Yes.”

There, the word of the Holy. “Would it be fair,” Takashi begins, and his throat is dry, something heavy pressing into the hollow of his chest. “If I offer myself the way he can’t?”

Keith stares at him, mouth parted slightly, and it should be considered as a crime to have this uttered out loud, where people could hear such confession when it shouldn’t even be taken into thought in the first place. Takashi knows the risks it carries, how it’s going to wring them dry and have the consequences of their actions smacking their nose.

But, he has to try, he has to know if Keith’s willing to do this for just one day. It’s cruel, it’s unrefined, but what entity handling their fate has always been on the cusp of _almost_ and _not enough_. Maybe, this will help. Maybe, this will get rid of what regret that’s been embedded so deep inside them that it’s starting to become a part of them.

And when Keith leans into his space, stealing his breath away that Takashi has to prevent himself from leaning back out of surprise, that he realises that this is affecting Keith more than he expected.

There’s a tremble in his hands when Keith reaches forward to brush his hair away from his forehead, sees how those eyes shine brightly as he tucks a strand of hair behind his ear. Takashi stays still, waiting.

“How is this going to affect us later?” Keith whispers, letting his fingers linger against his cheek.

“In any way you want it to be,” Takashi answers just as quietly, leaning into his touch, encouraging, before he pulls back and meets Keith’s look properly. “We can forget about this now, and never talk about it again. I just need your word.”

He would, he loves him too much to use Keith for himself. Takashi wants this to be mutual, and if he doesn’t get that, he wouldn’t mind.

Keith lets his thumb brush under his eye, before Takashi finds a pair of lips brushing over his and the world explodes in colours right in front of his eyes.

He sucks in a breath, surprised, and Keith becomes bold enough to angle his head to the way he likes it, leaning forward more until he has both hands on Takashi while he holds onto his elbows.

This is what they need. This is what they’ve been yearning for and could not get because of fate, because of power, and those good deeds of their lives to weigh their capability—

When Keith prods through his lips with his tongue, Takashi moans softly and tilts his head, snaking his arm around his torso as he slides to the end of his seat.

It’s touching him, dragging the pads of his hand up Keith’s chest before they tangle themselves into his hair, curling his fingers around the strands until Takashi gives an experiment tug. Keith groans in response, and Takashi lets out a yelp when he’s being pulled off his chair.

“Keith,” he breathes out, walking backwards while Keith drags his mouth to the corner of his jaw and sucks a hickey there, a tease of his teeth biting into his skin that has Takashi tightening his hold onto his hair.

The breakfast table pinches into his lower back, almost pushing him back too far that Takashi surges forward to meet Keith’s enthusiasm toe to toe. He kisses him, teeth clicking, feels daft fingers wrenching open his cadet uniform as those lips follow their path, nipping near his pulse.

“Keith,” he says again, hips rolling, and it causes a small cry to fall out when Keith sinks his teeth deeper into the meat of his shoulder.

“Shiro,” Keith moans against his skin, and Takashi feels the thrill zapping down his spine at how hard he already is when Keith grinds against him, hands sliding down his back to grip his ass. “How do you want this?”

Takashi drags his fingers down the firm chest in front of him, tugging on his bottom lip with his teeth. “Preferably you fucking me senseless.” He smiles at the sharp intake of breath, and presses another kiss onto his mouth. “Definitely that.”

Keith kisses him properly, longer, wetter, and Takashi feels Keith unbuckling his pants and shoving them down to the middle of his thighs. He moans when Keith wraps his fingers around the base of his dick, tipping his head back as Keith brings his kisses to his neck again.

Keith strokes him once, twice, pressing a thumb on the underside of his dick before he drags it to the tip that has his hips stuttering in his grip, a whine tumbling lose. Keith swipes over the slit, and Takashi thrusts into his fist, loves how the textile of his leather gloves sparks out a delicious friction that can be felt to his knees.

“Keith, Keith,” he gasps out, clawing onto his shoulders and arms when Keith used his other hand to fondle with his balls, squeezing it firmly into his palm until Takashi keens, toes curling in his boots.

“I need you to come for me now,” Keith growls into his ear, sliding his hand down his length before he’s pumping Takashi with a pace. It’s nothing sort of merciful, and Takashi drinks it with all its worth. “Or I’ll just leave you like this without coming at all.”

“You won’t last a day without thinking about this.” Takashi replies breathlessly, peering at him through his lashes.

It’s a mistake to have a smart mouth like this, especially at the kind of grip Keith has on him where Takashi is completely at his mercy. Keith lets go of his dick, leaving it fully hard between them that it hurts, until the head of his dick almost brushes against the front of Keith’s pants. Takashi grinds against him, and lets out a cry at the sharp slap of a palm against his ass.

“You’re gonna talk like that again with that pretty mouth of yours?” Keith asks quietly, and Takashi shakes his head, the sting of the hit spreading across his soft flesh like flames. “Will you listen to me now?”

“ _Yes_ ,” Takashi gasps, needy, his dick heavy and borderline uncomfortable from how much blood goes there. He grinds against Keith’s clothed dick, groaning at the length and how good it would feel inside him, stretching him wide. “ _Yes_. Keith, _please_.”

Keith takes his dick in his hand again, stroking him that Takashi groans, feels the buildup simmering underneath skin while the drag and pull of those fingers brings him nearer to the edge. Keith swipes over his slit again, tugging, and then Takashi is coming into his hand with a rush in his ears.

He gasps, abdomen contracting from relief before Keith catches his mouth into another demanding kiss.

“Need you to turn around for me,” Keith mumbles out against his mouth, swiping off some of his come from his skin.

Takashi feels the way Keith’s clothed dick bumping into his own softening one, and groans as he does as he’s told.

“You’re so good for me,” Keith says, kissing the back of his neck as he nudges for Takashi to widen his stance. There’s a slide of a finger against the curve of his ass, taunting him, before Keith pries his cheeks apart for him to twirl his come slathered finger against his hole, causing Takashi to exhale sharply. “So good for me.”

A digit slides in first, fingering him properly, widening Takashi up until he’s able to slip in another finger. Keith twists around, curling his fingers until Takashi gasps, gripping onto the edge of the breakfast island tightly until his knuckles turn white.

Keith scissors him, pushing deeper until they brush against his prostate, causing Takashi to let out a small whimper that Keith does it again, and again, and again, before he enters a third finger — Takashi is a mess, mouthing against his own shoulder as he pants, trying to catch his breath.

Keith kisses behind his ear. “You okay?”

“ _Yes_ ,” Takashi gasps out, and whines when Keith pulls out his fingers.

“I’m here,” Keith says, reaching over to scrape off the remaining come from Takashi’s front. “Hold on.”

There’s the sound of unzipped pants, and Takashi lets his head drop in between his shoulders as Keith slathers himself up, trying to even the beat of his heart.

Until, Keith uses one hand to part his ass and directs his dick against his hole. Takashi holds his breath, expectant, and lets out a gust of breath at the way Keith pushes in slowly.

Keith fucks him shallowly at first, and Takashi almost loses his mind at how this isn’t enough; he needs more, and he says so by snapping his hips back, causing more of Keith to slip deeper until both of them let out a gasp.

“You’re taking too long,” Takashi informs him tightly, sweat on his brow as he eyes Keith over his shoulder.

Keith snaps his pelvis forward, causing Takashi to choke as Keith slips through the tight ring of his hole and settles deeper inside him. Takashi has his back bowed, his face tilted to the wall while Keith grinds his way in until he’s fully sheathed to the hilt. Takashi gasps, panting to catch his breath when Keith leans forward to kiss his ear. “Maybe you’re just impatient,” he says, licking the shell of his ear, before blowing into it. “Can’t have that.

Keith pulls back until only the tip of his dick is still inside, before slamming home with a hard thrust that has Takashi jolting forward, a keen escaping past his mouth.

All thoughts leave as Keith fucks him from the back, his hips slapping against his ass rings as loud as the way Takashi’s pleas are. Keith pushes his hands up his shirt, shucking it up above his chest to reveal his perked nipples, pace unforgivable as he slams Takashi to the island relentlessly until he’s bend half-way.

“Keith, Keith,” Takashi gasps, feels the way the girth of his dick drags against his tight walls, feels how thick he is.

He feels hands patting near his flank and up his chest, before Takashi lets out a shout when fingers tangle themselves between his hair and tug his head back, causing him to face forward instead of hiding his face in the breakfast island.

What catches his attention is the fact they’re facing the window that leads towards the hallway, and it stretches wide across the whole wall that the ends almost touch from one corner to the frame of the door. It’s designed like that because wide windows are a thing when the Garrison is first build, and to prevent anything like what they’re doing now.

Standing outside the room looking in, is none other than Captain Shirogane himself.

And he looks absolutely enraged.

Keith has his face buried into his neck, not noticing the sight of the Captain as his pistons into Takashi with his hand still clutching onto his hair. He has his other hand cradling his exposed chest, fingers pinching around a nipple subconsciously.

Takashi holds onto the Captain’s glare, and jerks back against Keith.

Keith growls in response, and shoves into him harder that Takashi keens, feels his lips moving down his nape. “ _Keith_.”

But, he doesn’t break eye contact with the Captain, and the man himself seems rooted to the spot despite his anger, unable to do anything without giving away his position that would surely upset Keith.

Captain Shirogane is already screwed, and Takashi thinks it’s enough audience for the day.

By this time, Keith has already let go of his hair and instead grips onto his hips, and from how uncoordinated he is, it’s not long before he’ll be done.

Takashi pushes himself up enough to reach back and pull Keith into a heated kiss, shoving his tongue into his mouth to let his tongue graze at the sharp tip of his incisors, feels the short gasp of breath wafting on his lips as Keith fucks him hard enough to make his dick bounce.

Takashi clenches around him, and Keith groans loudly while he gives one last hard fuck that has Takashi’s pelvis shoved into the island with a jerk, causing him to whine loudly until his spine is bowed, where the only thing that’s connecting them both is how Keith is coming so far up his ass and Takashi has his head resting on his shoulder, pants tangled around his thighs with no space to maneuver.  

“ _Fuck_ , Shiro,” Keith whines, hips stuttering as he milks out his orgasm thoroughly with Takashi meeting his needs halfway, the sound of flesh against flesh a filthy little echo around them. “Fuck, fuck, _fuck_.”

Takashi pants, chest heaving as he blindly searches for Keith and kisses him again.

The moment Keith wraps his fingers around him, he has no chance and comes again with a muffled scream against the firm press of their lips that has Keith swallowing it all up greedily.

They’ve slowed into a stop, catching their breath as they stay like that for a while, where Keith has slumped against his back until he’s barrackating Takashi against the island kitchen.

When Takashi glances up to the window, he’s just in time to see a glimpse of Captain Shirogane leaving the area. Takashi muses quietly, realises how he actually stayed until the end.

Keith pushes himself off Takashi, and slowly pulls himself out that has both of them groaning loudly, the sudden emptiness has him clenching around nothing desperately.

“Jesus,” Keith murmurs, and Takashi moans when a thumb hooks onto the rim of his hole and presses forward, allowing come to trickle out as the oversensitivity crackles underneath his flesh and trailing to his dick.

“Stop, stop,” he wheezes, trying to straighten himself up with a push of his hands against the surface of the counter. But, he doesn’t have the chance to move properly before Keith is already dropping to his knees and tugging his ass back.

“Keith!” The first lick of his tongue against his hole has Takashi dropping back against the breakfast island, his legs being pushed as wide as they can from the restriction of his pants as Keith cleans him up thoroughly. “Fuck, _Keith_.”

When Keith shoves his tongue through the muscle of his rim, fucking him again like that, Takashi ruts back, interest crooning deep in his gut.

“You’re unbelievable,” Takashi pants, rolling his hips back when Keith swirls his tongue around his puckered rim.

Keith laughs, biting into the meat of his ass. “You love it.”

He gives one last long lick up the cleft of his ass before he stands up, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. Takashi straightens himself up, arms shaking, before Keith pulls him into his arms to give him a kiss on his lips, and Takashi almost dies at the taste of both him and Keith on his tongue.

They pull back, catching their breath, and Takashi takes that time to lets his gaze jump over the mussed ponytail and his glossy red lips, feeling exceptionally giddy at how _he’s_ the one who made Keith to look like an absolute wreck.

“Make sure you delete the footages before you leave.” Takashi tells him, and Keith tucks in a stray strand of hair behind his ear. He might have want the Captain to see their fucking for the sake of riling him up, but he doesn’t fancy anyone else stumbling upon it.

Keith hums thoughtfully. “Alright.”

Takashi sighs softly, resting his forehead against his shoulder as Keith pull up their pants to tuck both of them in. “You’re incredible.”

Keith presses his lips against his temple, holding him close. “You’re incredible too.”


End file.
